long drawn shout, "On deck all the starboard watch," and "All the
starboard watch to muster." So we knew that we would soon be relieved,
and would be able to take the much-needed four hours' sleep in our
"sleeping bags," as "Hay" called them. The starboard men came slowly up,
rubbing their eyes, buttoning their oilskins, and tying their
sou'westers on by a string under their chins as they walked.

"Hurry up there, will you?" calls out a port watch man, as the men of
the other watch sleepily climb the ladder. "Get a move on and give us a
chance to get out of this beastly wet." A sharp retort is given, and the
men move on in the same leisurely way. The men of both watches are
hardly in the best of humors. It is not pleasant to be waked up at
midnight to stand a four hours' watch in the rain and fog, nor is it the
most enjoyable thing in life to be delayed, after standing a four hours'
watch in the rain, realizing all the time that each minute of waiting
takes that precious time from the scant four hours' sleep.

But finally "all the watch" is piped, and we go below and flop into our
hammocks, to sleep as soundly and dreamlessly as babies. A sailor will
sleep like a dead man through all kinds of noises and calls, but the
minute his own watch is called he is wide awake in an instant, from
sheer force of habit.

So when the boatswain's mate went around with his pipe, singing out as
he dodged in and out among the swinging hammocks, "On deck all the port
watch," each of us jumped out of his swaying bed and began to climb
into his damp clothes and stiff "oilers." We then made our way through
the darkness, often bumping our heads on the bottom of hammocks, and
earning sleepy but strongly worded rebukes from the occupants; colliding
with stanchions, and stubbing our toes on ring bolts and hatch covers.